The Last Street Novel (17 page)

Shareef was still in minor shock. He couldn’t believe Jurrell had changed that drastically.

He said, “Nah, I’m up here, ah, doing some research.”

“Research on what? You writing a book on Harlem now?”

Shareef was still hesitant to reveal too much. But the man was right in his face and asking him questions with all sincerity.

“Yeah, a little something, you know. I just haven’t been up here in a while.”

Jurrell nodded to him. He said, “A lot of things are changed in Harlem now. It ain’t about that street life no more. It’s about moving on up. And if you’re not moving on up, then you’re moving on out of Harlem. It’s a new ball game now. I’m just trying to stay in the game.

“Yeah, so you was down in Atlanta last, right, at Morehouse?” he asked him, changing the subject.

Shareef began to wonder how much they still knew about each other.

“Yeah,” he answered, keeping everything short. He needed to decide how much he wanted to trust Jurrell.

“You get involved in that music game at all down there in Atlanta? They’re blowing up now, ain’t they? T.I., Young Jeezy, Lil John. You didn’t try to write any songs for any of those singers down there, little girls like Ciara?”

Shareef said, “I actually did try to write a few songs. But the whole political game just killed my interest in it.”

“What, with certain people wanting to write?”

Shareef wondered how many questions Jurrell was planning on asking him as the line moved up.

He said, “Yeah, you got managers in the way, labels that want brand names, singers who want to write their own shit. It was just too much of a hassle, man. So I let it go.”

Jurrell nodded to him again. He said, “Well, I don’t want to hold you up, man. It’s just good seeing you again. Seeing you and knowing how big you’ve made it, just gives me inspiration. I mean, we were in the same classrooms together for years.”

He smiled and stuck out his hand again. Shareef shook it a second time. And before Jurrell left, he offered him his business card.

“Look, if you need any help on your research, or on anything, just call me up while you’re here. Because you know I know everything,” he added with a grin. “But some of these young bloods I talk to nowadays don’t want to believe it. They all wanna find out the hard way. So call me up, man. Let’s talk.

“And oh, nice meeting you,” he addressed Cynthia.

“Same here.”

As soon as he was gone, Cynthia asked Shareef, “You know him?” She seemed surprised by it.

He grinned at her. He said, “I’m still trying to figure that out myself. But like he said, we went to school together. Why? What do you know about him?”

She had already ordered her coffee. They were waiting for it at the end of the counter.

She answered, “I don’t know that much about him, but whenever I see him, he seems to get a lot of respect around here.”

Cynthia had told Shareef that she was originally from White Plains, and that she had only lived in Harlem for a few years. So she was still figuring out who was who and what was what.

Shareef nodded to her.

He said, “Yeah, well, if you did the kinds of things he did, people are gonna either respect you or want to kill you. So, if they’re not trying to kill him, then they’re damn sure gonna respect him. And that’s all I need to say about it.”

Cynthia tested her cappuccino and asked him the next question.

“Was he as popular on the streets as Michael Springfield?”

Shareef shook his head in the negative. “Nah, popular is not the word I would use for him. I would call him more
infamous
. Because you didn’t even want to say his name.”

She tasted her coffee again as they walked out and said, “But he looks so, you know,
normal.
I would even say he looks handsome.”

Shareef had to chuckle at that. He said, “That’s what got me so confused. I mean, Jurrell was never really an ugly person in the face, he was just ugly in the mind. Because his mom looked
good
coming up to the school offices. I still remember that. It’s just that he never tried to look good on his own. He was too busy being a fuckin’ villain.

“So now that I see him all cleaned up and civil-looking, the shit is just weird, man,” he told her. “It’s just weird.”

Cynthia said, “Well, I hate to run while you get something to eat, but I have some things to catch up on. I like changed my entire schedule to make today happen for you.”

He said, “Cool, go do what you gotta do. I’m tired of seeing your face for this long anyway,” he joked to her.

She stopped him and said, “Watch it now. That’s exactly how a guy pisses a woman off, and then he wonders why she doesn’t want to give him none later on.”

Shareef froze and thought about it. Immediately, she had him thinking about his wife again.

He asked, “Is that right? So, I need to be nice at all costs, hunh?”

“If you know what’s good for you.”

“Well, what if a woman still won’t give it to you even when you’re nice to her?”

She took another sip of her coffee and answered, “Either she doesn’t like you like that, or she doesn’t trust you enough yet to be intimate.”

Shareef nodded and sucked up the woman’s knowledge.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” she told him. “Now run along and get yourself some soul food from Sylvia’s, and I’ll call you later tonight so we can plan to go back up north on Friday.”

“Aw’ight, I’ll talk to you later then.”

S
HAREEF TOOK A SEAT ALONE
in Sylvia’s Restaurant at 127th and Lenox, where he ordered fish, greens, yams, and rice with gravy. For his drink, he ordered lemonade. While waiting for his order to arrive at his small, two-person table set by the left wall, he went ahead and called his wife and children in Florida.

“Hello,” Jennifer answered.

“How was your day today?” he asked her. Civility was the best model of repair.

She said, “We’re running late for football practice.”

Shareef paused.
It figures,
he told himself. He shook his head at the table with his cell phone in hand and didn’t say a word about it.
Even without a job, and with all day to prepare for it, she still manages to run late for everything. I just can’t understand this woman
.

Anyway,
“Outside of that, how did the rest of your day go? He’ll get to practice.”

“Do you really…” Jennifer started and stopped herself. The kids were still in the car with her. She said, “Shareef, Kimberly, your father’s on the phone.”

Yeah, leave it alone,
Shareef told himself. Their marriage seemed like a lost cause.

“Hey, Dad. We got our first scrimmage next week against the Raiders. Will you be there?”

“What day?”

“Thursday.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” he told his son.

“And I might be the starting running back now, Dad. But the coach won’t say yet.”

Shareef raised his brow. “Running back? I thought you were playing wide receiver?”

“I was, but at practice yesterday they moved me to running back because nobody could tackle me. And I ran for like three touchdowns on eight carries.”

“Shit,” Shareef told him. “I mean, good. That’s real good,” he corrected himself.
He’ll be a real star at running back. But not if he’s late for practice every day.

“Do you know all of the plays?” Shareef asked him.

“Most of them. But now I have to study them again.”

“Yeah, I bet you do. Well, I look forward to that. Are you excited?”

“Yeah. I’ll get the ball a lot now. I wish I was at practice now. But um, we’re like late all the time.”

Shareef could tell that his son didn’t want to say it. His mother was probably staring at him, too. But he could hear that the phone call had cheered his son up.

He probably had his lips poked out a mile before I called,
Shareef assumed with a grin. But his grin quickly turned into a frown.
And if I’m not around to get him to practice on time, it’s only going to make his attitude worse.

Shit!
he cursed his dilemma.
I got work to do. But now I gotta have this shit on my mind.

He told his son, “Hey, look, J, it’ll all work out. Maybe you can start getting a ride to practice with one of your friends.”

“But nobody on the team lives near us.”

That was probably true. Shareef had gone out of his way to have his son play for the Jaguars just so he could be teammates with boys his own color. He figured it was important for his son to be able to connect to the victories and struggles of being an African American. The earlier he did so in his youth, the better. The memories of a man’s childhood were the strongest, even for Shareef Sr., growing up in Harlem.

“Well, we’ll figure something out,” he responded. “And in the meantime, just try to…try to get along, Shareef. Just do what you’re told to do.”

The words came slowly only because the father felt hypocritical about them. He didn’t stick around and just get along, or do what he was told to do. When the going got too tough, Shareef Sr. found a new place to live, breathe, and dream. Now he was telling his son to do the opposite.

When he gets old enough, he’ll make his own decisions about life. But for now, he’s just a boy,
Shareef rationalized. He figured a lot of decisions adults were forced to make for their kids were hypocritical. Hypocrisy was a natural part of parenthood. You couldn’t have your kids knowingly doing what you did in your own reckless youth. That would be insane. What if Shareef had been involved in the same destructive nonsense that his biological parents had been involved in? He still never even talked about them. And he wouldn’t.

“When are you getting back from New York?” his son asked him.

“Early next week.”

“You wanna talk to Kimberly now?”

“Of course I do.”

His daughter answered the phone. “Hey, Daddy,” and her voice melted him. What was it about his girl that made his heart flutter so much? For the son he felt proud, boastful, authoritative, and protective. He wanted nothing to happen to his little boy. He wanted the world for him. But for his daughter, the world just stopped moving and stood still when she spoke.

“Hey, baby girl. You miss me?”

“Yeah, I miss you. I love you,” she told him.

He said, “I love you, too. And I’ll be back home to see you next week.”

“Will you spend the night?”

Shareef paused and took a deep breath. Separating from a loving family was hard to do.

What the hell,
he told himself.
She only gets a chance to live once. But what if she gets spoiled by it and wants me to do it all of the time?

“Yeah, I’ll spend the night,” he told his daughter anyway. Jennifer never denied him visitation rights. He could stay as long as he wanted to. It was still his house. And they were still officially married. He just couldn’t bother her until whatever differences they had were settled.

“Daddy said he’s spending the night,” his daughter announced to her mother and brother in the car.

Shareef overheard her and shook his head again. He was spoiling his daughter the same way that millions of other daughters were spoiled. He only told her yes because he knew it would make her feel good. It was a decision of emotions over reason. But the reality was that Shareef and Jennifer were only living on borrowed time as a couple. Only a miracle could hold them together in peace, a miracle that Kimberly and Shareef Jr. prayed for every night.

When Jennifer reclaimed the phone from her daughter, she said, “We’ll need to talk.” That’s all she needed to say. Shareef knew the program. He would have to explain why he continued to make spontaneous decisions that created more family confusions.

“Yeah, I know,” he mumbled as his food arrived.

A spontaneous life was what he wanted sometimes. As a professional writer, he had enough planning, plotting, and scripting in his life as it was. Spontaneity was that added spice that kept his blood pumping. It was the reason he was back in Harlem in the first place. A return to Harlem was something brand new, exotic, and different.

Jennifer needed some spontaneity back in her life. And he would tell her so when they talked again in private.

Shareef ended the call with his wife and family and dug right into his food, like he had never eaten before.

“Excuse me, I hate to bother you while you’re eating, but could you sign my book before you leave?”

Shareef looked up and smiled to a black woman in her thirties with his mouthful of food. Then he nodded to her.

“Oh, thank you so much,” she told him. “I just missed when you were up here last month at Hue-Man.”

He mumbled, “All right. I got you when I’m finished eating.”